Hands
by FeathersMcStrange
Summary: Six shorts in which each possible combination of main four of the team hold hands, in a plausible circumstance under which this would realistically happen. Rated for gun violence, references to death. Written to be gen, no intended pairings, but feel free to read into it what you wish.


From a prompt on tumblr from anon from the Radical Face prompt meme, of the main four and the lyrics included. The opportunity to write guilt-free fic entirely of nonromantic handholding is the best thing that's happened to me, fic-wise, t b h.

Warnings for the individual shorts: One: hospitals, injury, Two: referenced death, blood, Three: food, Four: N/A, Five: implied past abuse a la marty's backstory, Six: guns, gun violence, really frightening driving

* * *

 _I'd hold your hand_

 _While the sky fell apart_

 _And you'd hold my hand_

 _If you felt me slipping back_

 _Into the dark_

 _\- Radical Face, "Sisters"_

* * *

ONE: Sam & G

For as long as Sam has known him, G Callen has been a quiet man. He never seems to want to draw attention to himself, preferring to fade into the background, to make as little noise as possible and watch, unnoticed. As the years went on, as the two of them grew close, developed trust, G grew more talkative around him, until there came times when Sam _wished_ he would shut up.

Now there is nothing Sam wants more than to hear his partner's voice. G is completely soundless where he lies on the hospital bed, kept alive by machines and technology. The mechanical click and rasp of the ventilator in time with the rise and fall of G's battered chest, the high pitched beeping of the monitor in time with the beating of G's strained heart, these are the only things Sam can hear aside from his own racing thoughts. It's been four hours since G came out of surgery, two since he was allowed into the room, and already it feels like it's been days.

The damage that's been done here is massive, and the only part of G's body Sam can see without bruises, scrapes, or sutures is the man's left hand, laying on top of the pale blanket pulled up to his chest. It's a snap decision that has Sam reaching out, taking that hand in both of his. G's hand is cold and still, unresponsive in his own. Were it not for the hill-and-valley line of the heart monitor, it would be easy to assume him dead, Sam thinks. The thought sends a chill down his spine like a rivulet of ice water along the back of his neck. Sam shivers, trying to dispel the sensation, and grips G's hand harder, trying to will some warmth back into it.

"You're gonna be fine," he says quietly, more out of a need to fill the suddenly suffocating quiet than anything else. "You've pulled through worse than this, G, you're a tough bastard. You're gonna be _fine_."

No response, no flutter of G's eyelids or twitch of his fingers. Sam dips his head, looking away from his partner's face and down at their hands. He flexes the palm pressed to G's and interlocks their fingers, closing his other hand around the back of G's blood loss-chilled one.

This is not the first time Sam has sat by a bed in a hospital, holding tightly onto G's hand in the hope that maybe giving him something physical to hold onto will keep his soul tied to life. And even as he sits there, holding on and hoping, Sam knows with a heavy heart that it also will not be the last.

* * *

TWO: Kensi & Sam

Sometimes, even when you win, you lose. Sometimes, even when you catch your killer, you're too late to save the nineteen-year-old kid he's holding hostage.

Sometimes, even after the building has darkened and almost everyone has gone home, the sounds of fists against a punching bag in the gym still sound through the hallway, dull thuds which echo almost like curses.

Kensi sits with her back to the wall and listens to the impacts reverberate through the air. Her head seems empty of productive thought, nothing left but the image of the victim's face, the blood on Sam's hands where he had tried to help, just a few moments too late. There is no one else, as far as she can tell, left in the building with them, just her, Sam, and the lingering cloud of failure hanging over both of them.

Alone in the hall with her tired eyes and aching heart, Kensi listens to the sound of Sam beating the ever-loving hell out of the punching bag that has seen, through the years, a lot of his worst days. It takes time for the sounds to stop, for Kensi to get to her feet and walk numbly down the hall, into the gym.

She stops just inside the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, taking in the man in front of her. Sam's hands are braced on either side of the bag, forehead dropped against the material, shoulders hunched. Kensi can see, where she stands, that blood has soaked through the wrappings around her friend's knuckles. That's what prompts her to move, walking over and standing beside Sam. She can see his back heave with his breathing, harsh and ragged.

With a deliberate slow gentleness, Kensi reaches out and puts one of her hands over one of his, pulling it carefully away from the bag. Sam doesn't resist or fight her, allowing her to lead him to a bench. He stays there without saying a word when she stands, touching his shoulder before walking to grab a towel, dampening it and coming back. Keeping quiet, Kensi sits down next to Sam, pulling over and gently cleaning off first his right and then his left knuckles.

When she is finished she doesn't say anything, just stays sitting beside him on the bench, his left hand carefully held in her right. The sun has gone down outside, the light in the room dim. Every part of Kensi feels heavy and exhausted, and she lets her body slump sideways into Sam's. She can feel him lean back in turn, cheek falling against the top of her head. On an impulse, she squeezes his hand. He squeezes back, and it's a long time before either of them moves.

* * *

THREE: Marty & Kensi

At the arrival of another jump scare, the soundtrack of the horror movie spikes in time with Kensi's shriek. The popcorn previously resting on her lap is now half scattered across the floor, her knees having jerked upwards when she was startled. Sitting next to her, Marty's laugh is a teasing, bright sound in Kensi's ear.

"We can stop the movie if you're getting too scared," he goads, grinning. His voice is mockingly sympathetic and Kensi sends him a withering look. Now more than ever she wants to finish this movie, jump-scares and creepy figures in nightgowns be damned.

"No way," she responds, turning her focus back to the screen and righting the bowl of popcorn. There's still a good amount left, and she distracts herself from the embarrassment heating her cheeks by grabbing a handful of it.

Despite her heart still racing from before, Kensi is enjoying herself immensely. It's been a long week full of difficult situations, and it's nice to just relax here on the couch with someone fun and watch a movie, free of distractions, obligations, and responsibility. Even if that someone is prone to poking fun at her when she's startled.

As the protagonist creeps through the darkened hallway, the music mounting again, Kensi can feel her heart racing in her chest. She's always enjoyed horror films for the sense of thrill she gets from them. You'd think she would get enough of that through her job, but there's something about fictional fear when you know you're safe that makes the real danger somehow seem less scary. It makes her feel more ready to face whatever is going to come at her next.

The next time a jump scare happens, Kensi is braced for it. The protagonist turns a corner, the monster jumps out at her, and-

And suddenly the popcorn is all over the floor again, this time courtesy of Marty, whose failing arm has knocked the bowl to the ground as he falls off the couch in an undignified heap of limbs and heaving breaths. Kensi stares at him for a second, ignoring the blood spattered scene on the screen in front of them, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

"Aw," she coos, laughing a little at the indignant look he gives her. "We can stop the movie if you're getting too scared. Or, if you want, you can hold my hand, and I'll protect you." What Marty does in response to that is not at all what Kensi was expecting him to do.

"I think I'll take you up on that." With a soft grunt, he heaves himself back up onto the couch and captures her jokingly outstretched hand in his own, locking their fingers together and turning his attention back to the screen.

Kensi looks at their now joined hands for a moment longer in surprise, her teasing smirk fading into a shocked look then a gentle smile. She thinks about pulling her hand away but decides against it, squeezing Marty's fingers and settling back to watch the rest of the movie.

* * *

FOUR: Kensi & G

"He's looking this way, better sell it," Kensi mutters, reaching out quickly and grabbing onto G's hand where it hung at his side. She threads their fingers together and swings their linked hands a little, smiling at him and laughing as if G has just said something funny. G smiles back and looks out of the corner of his eye to see if the man standing on the corner by the beach has noticed them.

Their mark is under the impression the two of them are a couple, and he is known in the circles he runs in to be a suspicious man. When there is a chance they could be seen by him, Kensi and G had to convincingly fake a committed relationship, which involved a lot of sitting too close on benches and walking down the street holding hands.

There wasn't anything about this assignment either of them particularly found objectionable. The day is calm and warm, but not oppressively hot, and the ocean glitters under the noon sun. Sam and Marty are stuck doing the legwork on this one, while Kensi and G focus on distracting the target. The usual matchup had to be shaken up as their suspect had previous dealings with Marty when he was part of the LAPD, leaving G to walk down the beach with Kensi, holding her hand.

Kensi continues swinging their hands gently back and forth, grip steady and confident, as if this is the most natural thing in the world to be doing with him. In case the suspect can hear, G and Kensi keep up a light stream of meaningless chatter, about who is going to pick up the dog from doggy daycare, what's for dinner that night, and who was the last person to do the laundry.

It's a few moments into them walking down the beachfront in silence before G realizes that their suspect can no longer hear them. Despite this, Kensi's hand is still in his, her fingertips resting in the valleys between his knuckles. He looks around a little, wondering if he should say something, despite the selfish part of him drinking in the strings-free contact wanting this to go on, just a little longer.

"Uh," G says after a while, shooting a glance at Kensi's care-free face. "The suspect's out of earshot and he can't see us any more."

"I know," she replies, continuing to stroll down the beach.

"You don't have to keep…" He dances around the words awkwardly. "You can let go. If you want."

"Do you want me to?"

"…No."

Kensi nods and the sun continues to shine down on their shoulders, the two of them walking slowly along the beach together, linked hands swinging gently between them.

* * *

FIVE: G & Marty

The day has wound down to a close, sun setting and most of the lights in the building being turned off as people left work and headed for home. G is sitting at his desk, picking at his keyboard, filling out the paperwork that piled up over the week. Only one other person remains in the team's work area. Marty Deeks lays on the couch, face up, with a throw blanket tossed over him, dead to the world. G figures that he'll wake the man up when he finishes with the paperwork and heads home, but for now there's no harm in letting Marty sleep off the rough assignment they'd finished that day.

For a while there is no sound in the room other than the muffled, far away tick of a clock, and the tck-tck noise of G's keyboard. Every so often, G would glance over at the couch and have a silent snort of laughter at whatever goofy expression currently occupied Marty's face.

Things go along unremarkably until G hears something outside of the clock and the computer keys. All of his senses instantly go on high alert upon detecting a quiet sound of distress, from the nearly deserted room. He looks over at the couch where Marty still lays asleep, and it's there he finds the source of the noise. His teammate's face is scrunched up in what looks like fear, or pain, or a combination of the two. His hands, once laying loose and relaxed on top of the blanket are now curled and claw-like, tremors running through his stiff fingers.

It becomes swiftly and alarmingly obvious that Marty is currently locked in the clutches of some kind of night terror. There's only so long G can stand to sit there while his friend makes those horrible noises, the suppressed whines of someone in pain, and within a few seconds, he's crossed the space between his desk and the couch, crouching down beside where Marty sleeps.

"Deeks," G says quietly, hoping to avoid startling him too badly. He doesn't know what Marty is dreaming about, but he knows what's playing through his mind when he looks like that, what sort of memories he's reliving with a clenched jaw and hands drawn up defensively. "Deeks, c'mon, wake up."

No response save a slight uptick in the sounds of the nightmare, a teardrop squeezing out from tightly scrunched eyelids and rolling down one flushed cheek. _This_ , G decides, _has gone far enough._

"Deeks," he says, louder. Still no response. "Deeks! Marty!"

That time it works, and Marty's eyes fly open, hands flying out in a wild scramble, one of them latching onto the first thing it comes in contact with, which happens to be G's forearm. Marty's fingers dig into the flannel of G's overshirt with nearly painful strength, and his eyes are wide and terrified, staring at G.

"Is he here?" Marty asks in a hardly decipherable rush, sleep and panic clouding his voice.

"No," G answers without asking who 'he' is, feeling the way Marty's hand still shakes despite his hold on G's arm. "You're safe. It's just us."

No more words are exchanged, the two of them holding eye contact while Marty shakes and breathes in rapid, shallow breaths, and G wonders what the hell there is he can do.

Eventually, he comes to a decision, moving to grab the hand that's stillclutching his arm like a life-line. Marty cringes for a second like he's anticipating being thrown off or yelled at, but instead, G pulls the hand away just long enough to grab onto it with one of his own, locking their fingers together and squeezing tight. He doesn't say anything, just sits there looking Marty in the eyes, holding their joined hands between them. He makes no move to leave, planning to stay for as long as he needs to.

* * *

SIX: Marty & Sam

"Will you drive a little more carefully, please, I do not want to _die_ today, thank you!" Marty shouts above the sound of gunfire and squealing tires.

"Will you _sit down_ and put your _seatbelt on_ ," Sam yells back, spinning the steering wheel and jackknifing around another sharp corner. The tires of the car skid on pavement and for a single, heart-stopping second it feels like the car is about to crash, with Marty still on his knees backwards in his seat, peering out of the open car window every now and then long enough to return fire at the armed suspect hot on their tail. Bullets are whizzing past the car, and it's only Sam's expert maneuvering with the steering wheel that's kept them from finding their mark.

A bullet pings off the doorframe inches from Marty's head, and he yanks it back, collapsing into the seat in a crumpled, defensive crouch.

"I'm trying to keep us alive, here," he snaps, poking his head back up over the seat shoulder, trying to locate the car carrying the gun-wielding murderers currently chasing them through the thankfully largely deserted side streets of Los Angeles. Another sharp turn sends Marty crashing into the door.

The yelp of pain and shock that escapes him sends a jolt of fear up Sam's spine, the mental image of Marty sprawled at the side of the road with road burn on his cheek and clouded blue eyes flickering through his mind. It's not an image that Sam wants to see play out into reality and the alarm that thought puts in his chest also puts a harsh note to his voice.

"Put your _seatbelt on_ , Deeks!"

Just as Marty is about to respond with another shouted reminder of why he's not wearing his seatbelt, hauling himself upright in the seat, a turn at precisely the wrong angle sends him crashing back against the door. The next events happen over the course of seconds, but they feel like they stretch on for much longer to Sam, who sees the whole thing happen out of the corner of his eye.

The people behind them shoot again, the bullet taking off the side mirror of the car. Marty heaves himself up by one elbow, far enough that he's hanging half out the window, and fires back. A crashing sound from behind the car signifies that his bullet has found its mark. Finally, the leverage against the door handle becomes a little too much, and the door flies open.

The only thing that saves Marty from a swift and probably fatal encounter with the swiftly passing concrete is Sam's reflexes, borne of having co-parented two children through toddlerhood. One hand darts out at the last possible second, leaving the steering wheel and snatching Marty's flailing wrist, hauling him forcefully back into the vehicle. Sam's hand slides down and grasps onto Marty's fiercely, squeezing so tight it hurts.

The car skids to a stop at the curb, both of them breathing hard, the sounds of twin racing heartbeats pounding in their ears, and their hands still clutching desperately onto each other. Sam turns his head and looks at Marty, who looks as shaken and freaked out as he does. On impulse, he squeezes Marty's fingers again. Marty squeezes back, and amidst the sudden silence of the car, starts to laugh.


End file.
